Page 110 of A Taste of Vanilla

Then I hit it.

Oliver slides a cup of water toward me from seemingly nowhere.

“I hate when you hydrate me through crisis,” I say.

“Lisa handed it to me. Drink.”

I drink.

Because apparently I have become obedient in exactly one category.

The front bell jingles.

I look up, expecting a customer, and freeze when I see Warren standing in the doorway.

Tools in one hand, a measuring tape in the other.

I choke on the water.

Marley turns slowly. “You,” she hisses.

The man looks us over, his gaze stopping on me for half a second too long.

“Door was unlocked,” he says, pointing behind him.

“We’re open,” Marley replies, as if she works here.

Sometimes, she practically does.

“Yeah.”

“You can’t just walk into places because the door is unlocked.”

Warren looks toward the back where customers occupy almost all the tables. “It’s a business.” His gaze moves to my face, and his eyes narrow just a fraction. “What happened?”

I hate that he notices.

“Nothing,” I say.

Oliver snorts, but Marley scoffs. “Whitaker nonsense.”

His blue eyes darken. “Grant?” he asks.

My stomach twists when I hear his name from Warren’s mouth.

“His mom. It’s fine.”

He looks at me for a long second. Then, finally, “Fine usually means handled badly.”

Oliver almost looks offended. “That’s usually my line.”

“It’s a common observation.”

“Why are you here?” Marley barks.

Warren looks befuddled. “I texted you.”

She stares at him, and he huffs.